


Queen of Fools

by KillTheDirector



Series: Alternative Universe - Gender Changes [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dark!Thorin, F/M, Female!Bard, Forced Masturbation, Gold sick!Thorin, Multi, No Battle of the Five armies, This will be very dub-con, fuck for your supper, more like battle of the two armies and some Men thrown in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillTheDirector/pseuds/KillTheDirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King Under The Mountain's eyes are as hard as flint, but she notices, have flecks of gold swimming in their depths. Soon, they'll be over run with the color; this fact causes Bard's stomach to flip, knowing that there isn't any saving him now. </p><p>He merely gives her a self-satisfied smirk, and leans back against the throne; his thick fingers curl into a fist that he rests his head upon, eyeing her up and down like cattle. "Your people are starving." It isn't a question, merely a statement of the obvious. Bard watches as gold slides liquid-like through one iris that had been previously sapphire blue. "I can help."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Fools

**Author's Note:**

> De-annoning myself from the kink meme. I wanted to see Thorin eating female!Bard out...and this sort of happened. This is far too much story for just a little bit of cunnilingus.

The stone of the cell's floor is hard against Bard's back, and the shadows much darker and deeper underground. Her hands rest upon her stomach, her fingers clawing at the softly rumbling flesh as best as she can in order to try and quiet the noise. 

The King Under The Mountain has declared she not be given rations, nor any light.

The first few days, it wasn't too terrible. She had still been swimming with adrenaline, from slaying the dragon and the subsquent battle. The ringing of swords and the soft woosh of arrows cutting through the air still haunted her memories.

When the first gnawing of hunger began, Bard easily ignored its call. She was used to having to do without; thin winters where it was between feeding her children or her self had trained her for this sort thing.

But then here was no light.

The lanterns were snuffed quickly by the amusing dwarf in the floppy hat; he looked at her through the iron bars with a haunted expression, purple bags beneath his eyes indicating he hadn't slept.

The ghosts of those whom had fallen in the last few days (weeks?) hissed at her. The little hobbit, Bard couldn't remember his name much to her guilt, urged her to run. She wanted to scoff, but then realized she was alone in her cell.

Bard closes her eyes and tries to curl the thin, moth eaten blanket around her shoulders. Across her eyelids, she watched helplessly as the little hobbit is dashed upon the rocks, his small body limp and lifeless as a doll. Gandalf thundered and called upon the forces of nature, but even he couldn't shake the dwarf king's mind.

The dwarves, save for their king, looked astounded and terrified. Bard's heart had bled for them, remembering the way the surly group had doted upon the creature.

The heavy clunking of metal boots against stone pulls her from her memories. The bright white of a torch has Bard shielding her eyes with a hiss, the light burning in ways she never imagined it would. Two guards stand before her cell, their frames large and unfamiliar.

"The King wants to speak with you." One guard grunts out, the noise of keys deafening.

Bard swallows thickly, her mouth dry from lack of water. "Tell him that he can come down here himself." She whispers, voice cracking uncomfortably on every syllable.

The other guard, a large dwarf with a shock of red hair strewn with beads, scoffs and says something harsh in the dwarves language. The first guard guffaws as he steps into the cell, hand easily wrenching Bard out; she's pushed forward like a doll, the rough handling all to easy due to her exhaustion.

She stumbles obediently, and climbs numerous stairs. Her head swims with the effort of holding herself up. The sound of life has begun to echo through the stone halls, and she begins to smell cooking fires that have her mouth watering and her stomach lurching.

The guards lead her into what appears to be a main corridor. The sounds of dwarrow repairing the mountain fortress come to a near stop as they study her as they pass.

Bard knows that she was the only commander to have been captured in the aftermath. Her hands tighten into fists as she's shoved forcefully toward a navy blue tent; the sound of boisterous laughter stops short when she stumbles through the silken opening, her hands scrambling to prevent her knees from hitting the rough stone.

Bard peers up from her kneeled position, and has to hold back the gag of disgust when she sees Thranduil's head mounted like a prized stag's above the king's stone throne.

The elven king's face is contorted in anger and pain, his once sharp blue eyes now dulled to a murky grey. The stump of his neck had begun to become mottled with spots of decay; his hair hangs like a dirty curtain and is stiff with blood.

The elven army, led by Thranduil's son, had retreated quickly after their king's demise and had left the rag-tag army of half starved Men to defend against the dwarves.

Dain Iron Foot clears his throat and stands from the sprawled position on a comfortable looking chair pilfered from the elven camp. He says something in the dwarven language and claps the King Under the Mountain's shoulder with a large grin and barely concieled glance in her direction.

They are left alone in the tent; she stares into the dwarf's eyes, trying to appear calm and resolute rather than out of breath."Why am I still alive?" Bard asks, her voice still rubbing in her throat as if she had swallowed sand. 

"Do you want to die?" He counters, a dark brow raising with question. The tone of his voice, eerily calm like the time she tried to bargian with him for her peoples' share of the gold, has a shiver of fear go down her spine.

She purses her lips and says nothing; Bard's body trembles because she realizes that, yes, she wants to die...but the image of her children's faces, and those of the people of Laketown flash across her mind.

The King Under The Mountain's eyes are as hard as flint, but she notices, have flecks of gold swimming in their depths. Soon, they'll be over run with the color; this fact causes Bard's stomach to flip, knowing that there isn't any saving him now. 

He merely gives her a self-satisfied smirk, and leans back against the throne; his thick fingers curl into a fist that he rests his head upon, eyeing her up and down like cattle. "Your people are starving." It isn't a question, merely a statement of the obvious. Bard watches as gold slides liquid-like through one iris that had been previously sapphire blue. "I can help." 

Bard tries not to perk at the mention of assistance, but her stomach chooses this time to growl loudly. The sound seems amplified in the small tent, and Bard has to tear her eyes away from the probing gaze of the King. "We...we don't need your help." She hisses, trembling with hunger and rage.

Thorin scoffs, and the hand resting on the arm rest of the throne tightens into a fist. "You accepted assistance from the _elves_ ," he says this as if he's spitting the word out. "And see where that left you." 

"We wouldn't have accepted their help if you had just given us what was due!" 

He smiles grimly, and stands. Though Bard is much taller than he, Thorin seems to tower over her with a counteriance as the mountain itself. She refuses to pull her eyes from his searing gaze; it's hot like dragon fire, and she has already slain _one_.

"You speak as if you are my equal, _Dragonslayer_ ," her title is mocking in his mouth, and Bard has to resist the urge to shrink down on herself or slap the dwarven king's face. "But you are not. You may be of royal stock, but you are the queen of beggars."

Bard needs to stand, to allow herself the leverage of height...but Thorin's gaze--a mixture of dragon horde gold and precious sapphire--has her still kneeling before him as if in subservience. He places a heavy hand on top of her head, fingers twining with the knotted black strands. "What...what do you want?" Bard asks helplessly, the contact throwing her after so long without. Her hair becomes tangled in his rings, the little bursts of pain tapping over her skull grounding her only somewhat.

"For you to give yourself to me." The dwarf growls, tugging her head up and gazing into her slightly dazed eyes. Her heart begins to pound (from excitement or fear, she doesn't know); Thorin looks like a man half crazed, possessiveness rolling off of him in waves. Bard unsticks her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

"Surely there's something else...?" She had always balked at the idea of offering herself up for food or shelter, mostly because it had always been the Master whom had offered; the dead eyed look of the men and women who stumbled out of the ramshackle palace had always dropped an uncomfortable stone in Bard's gut.

Thorin's eyes rove her face, then trail down her neck and to the rags she had been thrown into the cell in. He hums thoughtfully, fingers of the hand that isn't tangled in her hair stoking her cheek almost tenderly. "Your people cry for you, wondering if you've abandoned them. Your daughter," Bard tries not to perk at the mention of her daughter, but by the crooked tilt that flirts with the corner of Thorin's mouth she must have not hidden it well enough. "Yes, she was at the gates _begging_ for food and supplies to get them through the winter. How long do you think it will be until she offers herself willingly?"

"Hold your tongue, you bastard!" It comes out as a cough, and not nearly as menacing as she hoped. The fingers in her hair tighten and Thorin's gaze is as sharp as a raven's.

"I am the lesser of two evils, 'Queen' of Dale. The dwarrow under my cousin's command don't care where they stick their pricks, so long as the hole they have is wet." Bard's stomach churns, tears of anger stinging her eyes. Thorin continues, fingers trailing from her face to her exposed neck. "The offer I am making is generous; the elven King would have had you do the same eventually."

Bard wants to argue that Thranduil was more noble than the dragon-sick dwarf before her, but in truth she had no idea how the King of Mirkwood would have collected his dues. She swallows, letting her eyes fall from Thorin's calculating gaze to Thranduil's mounted head; with a surge of contempt, Bard wonders if this is why she had been allowed to live, but the contempt fades as she thinks of Sigrid in her place and at the mercy of the King Under the Mountain.

"I'll...I'll do it." She whispers, and closes her eyes with resignation.


End file.
